


today decides what tomorrow knows

by lupinely



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: F/F, let's band together and make bi shirley a reality, listen....we deserve f/f shirley fic, no one is straight in this fic and to be honest no one is straight on the show either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 04:38:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2719022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lupinely/pseuds/lupinely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shirley doesn't know what to say. That's she's not gay? Not interested? Not looking to date? Not really a great dating prospect because she’s thirty-nine and divorced with two kids and still can’t pay off her mortgage?</p><p>Not gay, surely. That’s what she’s saying.</p><p>(A woman named Mae asks Shirley on a date. Shirley talks to God about it and gets no answer. Also, Annie keeps acting strange, and only Shirley can figure out why.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	today decides what tomorrow knows

**Author's Note:**

> Slightly AU, in the sense that Shirley doesn’t ever get back together with Andre and doesn’t have a third child with him, either, and in the sense that this doesn’t follow the plotlines of seasons 4 and 5 too well because, frankly, I can’t remember them.

 

 

 

Maybe a small sandwich shop in a community college that’s not even the best community college in its community isn’t anything to write home about, and maybe the rest of the study group is sick of hearing Shirley talk about it all the time (“oh my god, Shirley, I don’t care about your profit margins and I have no idea what accrual accounting is and don’t you dare start explaining to me”), and maybe it’s not exactly the dream that Shirley had in mind when she first came to Greendale, but none of that seems to matter too much, these days. When she first came to Greendale, she didn’t know what she wanted. She’d thought she wanted Andre back; she’d thought she wanted to take a few classes just to make him jealous about how well she was doing without him so that he’d beg for her to please forgive him and take him back. She’d lie awake at night thinking about it, how she’d hold benediction over him in the palm of her hand, weighing forgiveness in the other.

But that’s not what happened. Shirley _liked_ the classes. And she liked the people, too, when they weren’t getting on her last nerve or building blanket forts across the entire campus. And she was really damn good at her classes, too—better than she ever thought she’d be. She’s a middle-aged mother of two, after all; well past anything that anyone might consider her prime. Which just goes to show you; even a subpar community college can turn things around when you least expect it, because she has the highest GPA in her major, and she has this sandwich shop, and it’s doing well, and Andre _did_ come crawling back to her for forgiveness in the end.

And that’s just about when she did the strangest thing at all, from the standpoint of Shirley-of-four-years-ago. She forgave Andre—she’s getting good at forgiveness, lately (even if she can’t quite forgive herself for, well, it doesn’t matter)—but she didn’t take him back. He’d nodded. Respected her decision. Kissed her boys on the tops of their heads and promised to take them every other weekend. And then he’d left.

And she hasn’t really seen him since, and that’s just fine with her.

Britta had tried to fist bump her and then blow it up when she found out what Shirley did, and that did make Shirley laugh, a little. Britta never liked Andre and Shirley used to resent her for that—for being younger and thinner and prettier and more attractive to men—but that was the other Shirley. That was Shirley before Shirley’s Sandwiches. Shirley after Shirley’s Sandwiches is a changed woman, and a better woman, and she’s trying to do right all the things that she’s been doing wrong, but it turns out it’s not as simple as flicking a switch and letting the light in. She has to work at it. And she’s trying her hardest, which is why it hurts so damn bad when she just keeps missing the mark.

 

-

 

There are a lot of regulars at her shop—which makes sense, because it’s in the middle of Greendale, after all, and most students are on campus a few days a week. Everyone stampedes her tiny counter during the lunch hour because her food is the most edible (and most delicious, thank you) on campus. She has two employees, and sometimes Abed helps out, but mostly it’s just her running things and trying to keep everything moving. Some days she doesn’t know how she does it. That’s why certain customers—certain regular customers who always make pleasant conversation and say “please” and “thank you” instead of “hurry up” and “where the hell is my sandwich?”—are such a bright spot during the noontime rush.

Leonard shows up a lot—and, surprisingly, he’s one of the good regulars. He’s promised to rate her store on his youtube channel, but Shirley has yet to see that video go up so she’s not too sure about Leonard and his promises. But he tips well, too, so she doesn’t have any complaints about Leonard.

The study group is probably the most annoying of her customers, because they stand in line chattering and bickering. Britta always wants to know if the olive oil is vegan (yes? Obviously?), and Troy buys all the cookies that Shirley spent the whole morning making, which is charming but also frustrating because they’re for all her customers, not just Troy, who she bakes cookies for weekly, anyway. Jeff just orders coffee while typing on his phone or looking around disdainfully at all the other customers on line. But she doesn’t get angry with any of them because they’re her friends and she loves them, kind of, when they’re not spilling soda all over her counter on accident and making the floor all sticky. So not today, then.

She’s mopping up the counter with a wad of napkins while Annie apologizes profusely, her face bright red as she tries to help clean up the mess, when another one of the Good Regulars shows up.

Shirley quickly takes the wet napkins and throws them in the garbage, shooing Annie away and shushing her continued barrage of sorries. “Go eat your food, pumpkin,” Shirley says, because the lunch rush is almost over and Annie has class soon and Shirley has another customer to serve, someone who doesn’t need to get caught up in Study Group Drama like what seems like the whole rest of this damn school.

Annie departs, throwing an anxious glance back at Shirley as she does so, which Shirley ignores. She straightens up and faces her customer. “Hi, welcome to Shirley’s Sandwiches, how may I help you today?”

The woman smiles. She’s tall—taller than Shirley, not that that’s hard to be—and her long thick hair is pulled back from her face. “The usual, please,” she says. “Busy day?”

“You have no idea,” Shirley says as she starts making the sandwich.

“I almost didn’t stop by because of the rush,” the woman says. “I usually like to wait until after it dies down.”

“Well, I’m glad you came anyway,” Shirley says. She’s wrapping up the sandwich with practiced ease.

“Yeah, well,” the woman says. Her smile comes again, warmly. “Couldn’t miss out on the best sandwich place in town.”

“Please,” Shirley says. She hands over the sandwich. “In the county.”

The woman roots around for money in her pocket. “You read my mind.” She hands over the money, exact change, and waves Shirley away when she offers her a bag. “Have a good day, Shirley.” She turns to leave, then turns back around, hesitant. “Uh, my name is Mae, by the way. I just thought—I mean, I know your name.” She points at the sign. “Shirley’s Sandwiches. And I’m always here, so. I thought I should just tell you.”

“Nice to meet you, Mae,” Shirley says. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

And Mae’s smile grows stronger now, her nervousness dissipating. “Good,” she says; “you’d better,” and then she leaves, waving to someone else in the cafeteria before she goes.

Shirley thinks about this tiny, meaningless encounter all day and doesn’t know why. None of her customers ever introduce themselves to her. She either knows them already because she goes to class with them, or she doesn’t. She is going to remember Mae’s name; she already remembers her face and smile, one of those Good Customers who always seems to somehow pick up the mood of a terrible day whenever Shirley’s having one.

 

-

 

The next time Mae shows up at Shirley’s Sandwiches, which is that Friday, which is the last day of classes before midterms, she orders her usual order, smiles when Shirley greets her by name without being reminded, and then asks Shirley on a date at the end of the transaction.

Shirley is so startled she can’t even respond, and Mae continues, stuttering a little. “I know it’s creepy to ask someone out when they’re working and I’m really sorry—I don’t know why I thought this would be okay, I just, I don’t have any classes with you and we’re not in the same major and this is the only place on campus that I see you and I thought maybe if I did it quick enough it would be less creepy but I—I don’t think that’s right, is it. Oh god I’m sorry. Please say something?”

Shirley, by the grace of God, somehow manages to speak. “Don’t be sorry, honey,” she says, and thinks, loudly, _WHAT,_ “I’m not offended, it’s just that, I’m not—I’m _not.”_

She doesn’t know what she’s emphasizing, really. Not gay? Not interested? Not looking to date? Not really a great dating prospect because she’s thirty-nine and divorced with two kids and still can’t pay off her mortgage?

Not gay, surely. That’s what she’s saying.

Pierce always said black people don’t blush (because he was a racist ass, God rest his soul, and Shirley wishes she would stop hearing his voice at times like this), but Shirley watches right there as Mae’s cheeks flush and she turns away, brushing a hand over her face and picking up her sandwich.

“Right,” she says. “Of course you aren’t, silly of me,” and she leaves before Shirley can tell her to have a great day. That might be for the best. Shirley can’t imagine that would make Mae feel much better.

Also, she still can’t really speak. She stares at the counter. Picks up a rag and starts wiping it down, rhythmically, because why not. Nothing makes sense anymore. She has a sandwich shop in a community college and a woman just asked her out on a date. She’s finally going to have the most interesting thing to talk about when she meets the others for their study session later.

 

-

 

Or she would have the most interesting thing to talk about, if she could speak. Which she still can’t, not about this. And it seems petty to bring it up—childish to tell it to the others, because she just knows they’re going to laugh at it, and Shirley doesn’t want any of them to laugh at Mae. Jeff would pretend not to pay attention, rubbing a mark off one of his shoes. Britta would say something scathing and mean about how maybe this is what Shirley deserves for being such a homophobe, unlike Britta, who kissed a girl once and is therefore immune from perpetuating homophobia. Annie would glower at Britta from across the table like she’s been doing for the past two months and no one will know why. Troy and Abed will glance at each other, communicating silently, and everyone will pretend not to know that they’re holding hands underneath the table. Pierce’s chair will sit silent and empty, and Shirley will feel cheap and used and petty, and she doesn’t want to, and she doesn’t want to embarrass Mae like this, to these people, even if Mae will never know what happened. She doesn’t deserve that. Shirley swallows and looks down at her hands, listening idly to the others talk and bicker. Jeff and Britta are fighting again. Annie looks like she’s going to cry. Her eyelashes won’t stop fluttering.

How do you do that, Shirley thinks, vaguely, a half-thought. Annie never holds anything back. When she feels something, she feels it, and everyone—or near enough everyone—will be able to see it on her face. The only thing Shirley expresses for others to see is anger, frustration. Disappointment. She hasn’t had much chance to show exuberance or jealousy or joy in a long while. Maybe you need practice. Maybe she’s forgotten how to do it.

“Can we actually study for once?” Annie says, her voice high-pitched as she flips through the pages of her textbook.

“None of us are even in the same class together anymore, Annie,” Jeff says.

Annie slams her book shut. “I realize that, Jeff. Thank you. I’m well aware. You don’t have to tell me things that are obvious, I’m not twelve years old.” And she starts packing up her things, flustered, dropping her notebook when she tries to shove it in her bag. Shirley picks it up off the floor and hands it to her. Annie gives her a watery smile.

“What’s wrong with Annie?” Troy asks once she’s left with all her things.

And maybe it’s because of what happened with Mae ealier, or maybe it’s because Shirley’s just sick of everyone in this group being too wrapped up in themselves to give a damn about each other anymore, but she snaps a little at that. “Maybe if any of you paid attention to something other than yourselves for a minute, you’d know what’s wrong with Annie!”

“Geez,” Britta says. “What’s up your butt?”

And for some reason, Shirley can’t stand that, either. “I’m going to open a bakery,” she says to the room, and is greeted with silence.

After a long moment, Jeff speaks. “Isn’t one store enough for you, Shirley?”

And that’s when Shirley gets up and leaves the room, too, stomping out after Annie.

She finds Annie sitting outside on a bench in the quad, crying. Shirley would never do that—cry in public. It’s not that she resents Annie for it, but maybe she does a little. Mostly she just wants Annie not to be upset anymore, because she’s been bottled up and angry and weepy for at least two months and all the others have been ignoring it, and Shirley doesn’t know what to do.

She sits down next to Annie, loops her right arm through Annie’s left. Annie shakily wipes at her eyes, half-laughs, quietly.

“Sorry,” she says. “This is embarrassing.”

“Let it out,” Shirley says. “You’ll feel better.”

Annie laughs again, more steadily this time. “No, I won’t,” she says. She blinks rapidly to keep back the tears and seems to finally master them. “I’ve cried more times this stupid week than I can count, and I don’t feel better.”

Shirley pats her hand with her own, gently. “I know, sweetie.”

Annie looks at her. “Of course you do. And no one else cares.”

“It’s not that they don’t care, exactly,” Shirley says. “They’re just—you know—they’re them.”

“I suppose I’m no better.”

“Well,” Shirley says, “at least you didn’t ask why one shop wasn’t enough when I told you about my bakery.”

“They said that?”

“Jeff did.”

“Of course he did,” Annie says, bitterly. “Well, screw Jeff! I mean, not—well, ignore him. You make great sandwiches and you’ll run a great bakery. I know you will.”

“Thanks, sweetie,” Shirley says. She hesitates, and then: “And you’ll feel better, you know, if you just _tell_ this person how—”

Annie pulls away. “No way. Nooo way, Shirley. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

And: all right. Maybe Shirley doesn’t. But this sort of tension can’t last long in a group as tightly knit as this. Look at Troy and Abed. Look what they did.

And it’s not—not that Shirley doesn’t approve of Troy and Abed together. They don’t need her approval. She’s not their mother. She just worries about them. Isn’t she allowed to worry about them?

She doesn’t know anymore. Everything’s all mixed up. She’s trying to do all the right things and keeps falling short, over and over again.

“Annie,” Shirley says. “I’m not stupid, you know, and I’ve seen your anguished-in-love face more times than I care to say.”

Annie goes extremely pale. She gets to her feet, carefully picks up her backpack. “Like I said,” she says, evenly, her words carefully measured; “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Shirley lets her go. She’s done enough meddling for the day.

 

-

 

She works her shop five days a week, breakfast and lunch, but closes before dinner starts because she’s just one person and she can’t be there all the time. She’d have to hire more people if she opened a bakery. She’d have to hire an _assistant manager_. And she’d be the manager. Shirley Bennet, manager of Bennet’s Brownies. But she doesn’t know how to do any of that yet. She has the facts and figures—the numbers and theories from her classes. The how-tos and the quanitative analyses. But she doesn’t have the courage, yet. She doesn’t know where she’ll open this bakery. She doesn’t want it to be inside Greendale. And that scares her even more.

Greendale is a bubble. A strange, insular, unhealthy bubble, but it’s safety and familiarity nonetheless. Shirley knows how to deal with almost everything that happens here.

Almost.

She’s eating dinner in the cafeteria before her night class, reading one of her textbooks. Midterms week means everyone looks a little frazzled, a little unkempt and wide-eyed. She sees at least three students walking out of the cafeteria with two huge cups of coffee in their hands. Oh, these young college kids. So much to learn about time management.

Someone sits down at the table across from her. She looks up, expecting to see Abed or Jeff, both of whom she knows are still on campus right now, but it’s neither of them—it’s Mae, looking a little sheepish, but smiling bravely.

“Hi,” she says. “Can I sit here?”

“Um, sure,” Shirley says. She hadn’t expected Mae to acknowledge her outside of a customer and employee setting. Of course, Mae already overstepped that line last time, when she—when she did what she did.

Shirley opens her mouth to say something—she’s not really sure what—and Mae just raises her hands. “Let me say something first,” she says, “that something being, sorry, again, I know I sprang that on you out of nowhere while you were working, and that’s not ideal, so. Sorry. And you don’t have to explain yourself to me, and I’m not trying to pester you until you say yes, I just want to hang out with you. If you’re okay with that.”

Shirley sits, absorbing this. It’s a lot for her to consider at once, especially since she doesn’t really one hundred percent know what Mae is talking about. “I want to hang out with you,” she says, finally; “you’re one of the Good Customers.”

“Oh, am I?” Mae says, smiling. She leans forward against the table. “That’s reassuring. I try very hard, you know, to be that.”

Shirley laughs. “Well, you’d be surprised.”

“I worked in retail for five years,” Mae says, “so I know exactly what you mean. I guess at least owning your own business has other benefits.”

“It does,” Shirley says, and then falls silent. What easy familiarity they’d managed to accrue petrifies once more. She looks down at her plate, at her textbook, over at her shop, the sign with her name on it, closed for the night.

“This is weird, isn’t it,” Mae says. “I’m sorry. I should probably go, you were studying, anyway.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Shirley says. She closes the textbook. She knows it all. She’s known it all for weeks. “I guess I’m just, I don’t know, a little—”

Baffled? Confused? Disturbed? Flattered?

“I don’t know why you’d want to talk to me,” she says, finally, because that’s the truth of it, the heart of this, and she might as well try and aim, this once, for sincerity. For the right thing.

Mae tilts her head, studying Shirley. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Shirley says, “unless you think that’s really sad, in which case, I’m just joking.”

Mae’s smile flashes bright and sharp. “Not sad. Maybe like you’re fishing for compliments a little.”

“A little,” Shirley agrees, and that breaks the petrification, splits the tree trunk.

Mae tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, let’s see. You’re very smart, but you don’t show off about it even though you’d be in your right to. You’re nice to me every time I come to your store even though I get the same sandwich every day, and also you remember what that sandwich is. You’re patient when people are rude but not when they step over the line. And you are, if your shop is anything to go by, a very good cook, which is always something I look for in a woman.”

She smiles again, then seems to realize what she’s said, and stops, hesitates.

“It’s all right,” Shirley says, quickly. (It’s all right? Really?) “It’s just—I’m, you know.” She fumbles again for the words. “I’m a Christian.” She doesn’t know why she thinks that will suffice, but it’s all she can come up with.

“Oh yeah, me too,” Mae says, offhandedly. “Well, lapsed, but.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Still wear the cross and everything.” She pulls it out from under her shirt: tiny and gold and glittering. “I sort of stopped going to service a while ago, though. After everything with—with my mom.”

“Oh,” Shirley says. “She didn’t—approve…?”

“What?” Mae frowns, then realizes. “No. I mean, that’s not it. She got sick. Died a few years back. And I stopped going to church.” She shrugs, but there’s an edge, now, to her voice, like she wasn’t expecting to talk about this and doesn’t quite know why she still is.

“I’m sorry,” Shirley says.

“It is what it is,” Mae says. “I dropped out of school to take care of her and never went back afterwards, so—I guess this is me going back.”

“That’s brave of you.”

“I guess,” Mae says. “I mean—it is Greendale, after all.”

They laugh.

“I got divorced,” Shirley says. “That’s why I’m here. And I wanted to open a bakery.”

“Yeah?” Mae asks. She looks over at the sandwich stop. “You still do?”

“Yeah,” Shirley says; “yes, I still do.”

“You should,” Mae says. “I bet you’re a wonderful baker.”

Shirley can feel her face growing hot this time, against her will. “I haven’t dated in a while,” she says, for God knows what reason; “I mean, I’m not with my ex-husband. Everyone thought I would get back with him. That’s what I thought too. But I’m focusing on my business right now.”

“I haven’t dated in forever either,” Mae says. “Wild. Too busy partying it up with the twenty year old infants at community college.”

Shirley bursts into laughter.

“They’re so tiny, aren’t they?” she asks. “I mean—look at them.”

“They are,” Mae says, musingly. “Hm.”

They sit in silence for a little bit, and then: “Let me know when your bakery opens,” Mae says, finally. “I’d love to see it.”

She starts to stand, and Shirley says, “Oh, wait.”

Mae does, and Shirley realizes she doesn’t know what she was about to say. “I mean, well,” she says, “I can bring you some brownies tomorrow. So you can try them—see if my bakery idea is any good at all.”

Mae looks like she’s trying not to smile. “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”

“Right,” Shirley says, and her face is burning, now. Pierce would have so much to say about this conversation. “Monday, then.”

“Okay,” Mae says, and now she does smile.

 

-

 

Shirley bakes a lot of brownies and cookies that weekend. You know—for practice. Jordan and Elijah don’t complain. She gives all the discarded sweets to them and packs up a container to bring to school and hopes that no one in the study group asks any awkward questions, as they tend to usually do.

 

-

 

Here’s the thing: she’s talked to God about this. Quite a few times.

The first time was when she was nineteen and about to marry Andre. _Dear God,_ she thought, because that’s how she talked to Him; _am I doing the right thing? Is this who I’m supposed to be?_

And she’d thought, yes; God was on her side, wanted her to get married to this man, this young handsome man who had not yet broken her heart, and so she did. And look how that turned out.

 _Is this who I’m supposed to be?_ because she thought she could make that choice: a conscious, rational decision to turn a part of herself off forever. She knows that’s not how it works; damn it, she’s heard all the arguments. She’s had them all with herself a hundred thousand times. Homosexuality is a sin. Love the sinner, hate the sin. The Lord as thy shepherd. They might as well make a class on it. How To Accept Your Gay Friends 101. She’d stand up there and look at the white light of the projector and think, _fuck you_ , while saying, “You have to learn to turn the other cheek.”

God is particularly quiet on this subject whenever she asks. Which means she’s had to come up with all the answers on her own. She just keeps reaching into the pot, pulling something out, pulling something out, trying to find something that fits. Nothing fits. She keeps saying the wrong thing, keeps doing the wrong thing. She doesn’t know how to make everything fit. She doesn’t know what’s supposed to be right.

And then she was divorced and middle aged with two kids and it just didn’t seem to matter as much anymore. People weren’t exactly lining up to date her. Her friends fell in and out of infatuation with each other without so much as giving her a glance. Sometimes they even fell in love, and she’s less envious of that than perplexed: how is it so easy for them, so simple, when it’s never ever been like that for her?

 _Is this who I’m supposed to be?_ she asked, young and nineteen and bewildered, because she knew, even then, that it was not who she was.

 

-

 

She catches Annie outside the study room before class. “Can I talk to you?” she says, quietly, and hopes Annie doesn’t hear how nervous she is.

“Of course,” Annie says. She looks bright and wide-eyed today, with a slight edge of general stress that can only be attributed to midterms. “What’s up?”

“I think I made eight dozen cookies this weekend. And four trays of brownies.”

Annie stares at her. “Is there a reason? Are we having a party?” She looks into the study room. “If we were having a party, you could have told me, I’d have helped you plan it.”

“We’re not having a party,” Shirley says. She feels very old and very silly to be talking about this to Annie, but she doesn’t know who else to turn to. And she’s also tired of watching Annie run out of the study room to cry in the bathroom. But that doesn’t change the fact that she’s thirty-nine and not thin and beautiful like Annie and it just feels pointless, really, to try and stand here and talk about love, big ideas like life and fate.

“I made them for someone,” Shirley says. “Because I like them.”

Them. Them, them, them, always _them,_ never _her._

 _Dear God,_ she thinks, like she always does; _one of these days I sure hope you give me an answer._

Annie’s whole face lights up. “Ooh! You like them? Or do you like them? Who is it? Oh, Shirley, what’s their name!”

And Annie—doesn’t say _he,_ though, either. Not _what’s his name._ Maybe it’s coincidence. But Shirley knows better.

So what can you do? You bite the bullet. You take the plunge. You do, what you hope, is right.

“Mae,” Shirley says, and waits for the shock on Annie’s face.

And it comes, it does, but not precisely in the way that Shirley had expected. “Oh,” Annie says, wide-eyed and round-mouthed, and that’s all. “But,” Annie says, fumbling; “but, Troy, and Abed, and you….”

“I know,” Shirley says; oh, God, does she know. “And I’m going to—I’m going to fix that, if I can, and none of this really matters that much, anyway, because she—” she! “probably isn’t actually interested in me anyway, and I’ll make a fool out of myself, but—oh, Annie.”

Annie is watching her now, carefully. Too smart for her own good. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because, Annie,” Shirley says. “Look—I know, and it’s okay. I know that you have feelings for Britta.”

Annie goes absolutely white. “No I don’t,” she says, loudly.

“It’s okay,” Shirley says, “it’s okay, sweetie. It is. You know it is.”

“It’s not okay,” Annie says, sounding slightly hysterical. “It’s not and you can stop saying that it is!”

“Why isn’t it?” Shirley demands. “What’s wrong?”

“Because of _Jeff,”_ Annie says, scathingly, angrily, bitterly, and then she claps her hands over her mouth.

She pulls them away, slowly, still looking stunned and pale. “Please don’t tell anyone about this,” she says.

“I won’t,” Shirley says, and then, because why not, adds: “And, just between you and me, I don’t think Jeff is as big a problem as you think he’s going to be. I think Britta moved on from him a long time ago—or, if she didn’t, she should.”

Annie smiles, weakly. “Thanks, Shirley.” And she looks at the cookies and brownies in the container in Shirley’s hands. “And I hope things go well with you and Mae.”

Shirley feels upended, poured out. “Thank you, Annie.”

They walk into the study room together. “And thank you for never saying that I remind you of your mother,” Shirley adds.

“I would never insult you like that,” Annie says. “My mother is an awful person. You don’t remind me of her at all. My mother especially never made eighty-four cookies to try and seduce another woman before, either.”

“If you tell anyone,” Shirley starts, but Annie zips her lips with her fingers, still smiling.

 

-

 

“Here,” Shirley says. She shoves the container towards Mae when Mae comes to the counter to order her sandwich. Mae takes the box, flummoxed, and looks inside. “For you. Um. No charge. Obviously. Do you want your usual sandwich?” Shirley makes it, flustered, and gives it to Mae. “No charge for that, either, but not because I’m—not because I’m trying to manipulate you. You’re a loyal customer and I appreciate that. Can I talk to you later when the shop is closed?”

Mae looks down at her hands, full of cookies and brownies and her sandwich. “All right,” she says, still bewildered. “I’m on campus until five.”

“Perfect,” Shirley says; “I close at four. I’ll see you then.” And then she rings the bell for the next customer, trying not to notice the way Mae is staring at her, completely bemused.

 

-

 

She closes at four like she does every day. Methodically, the same motions over and over. It makes sense even though none of the rest of this does. There’s a comfort in that at least.

Mae is there waiting, sitting at an empty table in the cafeteria, facing away from Shirley’s shop. She’s stirring a cup of tea that’s long since gone cold. Shirley finishes closing her shop and stands there for a moment, motionless. The cafeteria is nearly empty, the lull between lunch and dinner, and there’s nothing left but to do this.

She divorced Andre for a reason, after all. He didn’t respect her—didn’t love her—didn’t treat her right. He left her, yes; but she’s the one who told him no. I forgive you, but I will not let you into my life like that again. She did it for herself, but she hasn’t dated since then, and it’s been a long time. Doesn’t she deserve this? Doesn’t she deserve, at least, to try?

She’ll try, then.

She sits down across from Mae. “Ask me again.”

Mae blinks at her. “What?”

It’s hard to say what she means even though she’s trying so hard. “What you asked me, last week—and I said—well, you know what I said. Ask me again?”

Mae stares at her. And then she starts, slowly, to smile. “Do you want to go on a date with me?”

“Yes,” Shirley says, and Mae grins, wide and pretty.

“I thought you said you weren’t,” she says, gently.

“Turns out I am,” Shirley says. “Though it’s hard to tell that truth to myself sometimes.”

“Oh,” Mae says, “trust me, I know.” And she reaches out—hesitates, just slightly, waiting for Shirley to stop her. Shirley doesn’t.

Mae takes Shirley’s hand. “I was right, you know.”

Shirley’s trying to think over the buzz in her head that only grows louder when she thinks about Mae’s hand, her hand, both their hands touching. “About what?”

“I knew you were a great baker.” She squeezes Shirley’s fingertips. “When you opening that bakery?”

“Soon,” Shirley says. “First things first though.”

“Yes,” Mae says, very gravely. “First things first. Got any date ideas? Because I’ve got a few I can run by you.”

“Okay,” Shirley says, and can’t believe she’s saying it; but she feels warm, all the way through. Right down to her bones.

 

-

 

The study room again. Britta and Jeff, arguing; Troy and Abed holding hands under the table; Annie watching Shirley, expectantly, eagerly.

She has to tell them. They’ll find out soon enough, anyway; nothing’s a secret at Greendale. And she wants to do the right thing. She wants to do this. For herself, and a little bit for Annie.

“I have a date tomorrow night,” she says, and the room falls dead silent. Annie is beaming.

“Good for you,” Britta says. “I always said you should date more after you ended it with Andre.”

“Yes, thank you Britta,” Shirley says. She sees Annie roll her eyes and bites back a smile.

“Who’s it with?” Annie asks, brightly. “Do you need me to babysit Elijah and Jordan?”

“No, thank you,” Shirley says, oddly touched. “And you don’t know her. Her name’s Mae.”

The silence becomes, if possible, louder.

“Am I the only straight one left among us?” Jeff asks to the empty silence.

“Pierce was straight,” Annie snaps; “how does that make you feel now?” and then claps her hands over her mouth.

“God rest his soul,” Shirley adds quickly, and Annie looks sheepish.

“Let me get this straight,” Britta says—ignoring Jeff’s claim to be the only heterosexual left in the study group, either because she’s knows it’s not true or because she knows it is true, Shirley can’t figure out, and neither, clearly, can Annie—“you’ve given Troy and Abed shit for years for—whatever their little thing is—and now you’re telling us you’re going on a date with a woman? Are you serious?”

“It’s not her fault!” Annie says, loudly, but Shirley holds out her hand.

“Yes, it is,” she says, “it is my fault, and Britta’s right. I do owe Troy and Abed an apology.”

“Accepted,” Abed says.

“I didn’t even say anything yet,” Shirley says.

“You can later if you want to,” Troy says. “But we accept it anyway. We love you, Shirley.”

Her eyes well, embarrassingly, with tears. “Thank you.”

They smile at her.

“Does this mean you’re…gay now?” Britta asks.

“Bisexual,” Abed says. He tilts his head at Shirley. “Right?”

“Yes,” Shirley says; “I believe so.”

“Me too,” Annie says quickly, breathlessly. Everyone looks at her.

“Damn,” Jeff says, “I really am the only straight one left.”

Britta glares at him. Annie turns bright pink and stares down at her hands.

“When do we get to meet her?” Troy asks. “I bet she’s nice. Is she nice?”

“She’s nice,” Shirley says. Very nice. Sweet and pretty and genuine, too; a good combination. “And you can meet her if I decide you all won’t scare her away.”

Everyone groans, loudly. Someone throws a balled up piece of paper across the table. “We’ll be good!” Annie says, brightly, her hands folded in front of her. “I really want to meet her. Oh, I hope your date goes well! You’ll tell me everything, right?”

“’Course I will, pumpkin,” Shirley says, and the conversation shifts from there, naturally, easily, and it feels like home, but it feels like new.

 _Is this who I’m supposed to be?_ Shirley asks Him again, quietly; and for once, she thinks she knows the answer.

 

 

 


End file.
